


Pride and Prejudice and Winchesters

by Septembers_coda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Brotherly Bonding, Cosplay, Costumes, Dancing, Flirting, Formalwear, Gen, Humor, Innuendo, Literary References & Allusions, Period comedy, References to Jane Austen, Regency Romance, Romantic Comedy, manners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Septembers_coda/pseuds/Septembers_coda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s being way too nice to Dean. Something must be wrong—something involving boring old books, really fancy, stupid clothes, and fan-fluttering, self-conscious ladies. </p>
<p>Dean is OK with the “ladies” part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride and Prejudice and Winchesters

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Spring Fic Exchange at **Big Pretzel on Live Journal, ** a wonderful community dedicated to the lighter side of Supernatural.
> 
> I don’t know how to post art with a story on Ao3, but check out  LJ user Amber1960's wonderful art for this story.

Dean knew something was wrong when Sam came back to the motel room with donuts and coffee, let him have the first shower without complaint, and kept looking at him out of the corner of his eye like he was checking his mood. He knew it was something big when he even hit the liquor store and surreptitiously left a bottle of Dean’s favorite whiskey by his duffle—black label and all.

“All right, Sam, what do you want?” he said as they got in the Impala that morning. “I know it’s something.”

Turned out he wanted Dean to act like a _gentleman._ If there was anything out of Dean’s purview, it was this. Beyond that, Sam had tried to get Dean to read _chick lit._ Not even the modern kind that sometimes had some pretty good sex in it—the old kind, that was all stuffy manners and boring politics. After a long argument, Dean had finally agreed to watch the movie, but Sam had failed to tell him it was actually a five-hour miniseries. Still, he was trying to be a good brother, so he watched it, and if he fell asleep a couple of times, he didn’t think he’d missed much. He’d even laughed once or twice, and he’d probably picked up enough to play his part.

Sam claimed he’d need some background to fit in where they were going. It looked like there was a haunting at Austenland America, a theme park—or a retreat— in Maine, for women who wanted to pretend they lived in Regency-era England. 

Dean had been pretty confused at first. “So we’re going to a theme park, inspired by a movie, made from a modern book, that was inspired by an English TV series, that was adapted from some old broad’s book back in the 1800s?”

Sam smirked. “Yeah… I guess.”

Dean frowned. “I think the remake thing has gotten out of control.”

“Just be glad it isn’t Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.”

“C’mon, Sam. This is our lives we’re talking about. That’s probably exactly what it _will_ be.”

_Zombies I could handle,_ Dean thought, as he tried to figure out how to tie his cravat. _I don’t know about drawing rooms and all that crap._

The place wasn’t what Dean would call a theme park; it was just a big bed and breakfast with a ballroom, some grounds with horses, and stuff like that. Everyone wore fancy, old-fashioned clothes. Dean didn’t speak the language here. He’d complained about that to Sam when they arrived; Sam didn’t seem to have the same trouble. “Just bow a lot,” he’d advised, “and keep your mouth shut. Play the strong, silent type.”

That was working pretty well, except the ladies all seemed to want something, and Dean didn’t understand what it was. He was a man who liked to give women what they wanted, at least in the short term, so he found the whole thing kind of frustrating. He felt a little bad for them. He would happily have shown any of them a good time; most of them seemed like they could really use it. But they really weren’t “good time” kinds of women. He honestly wondered if some of them, even the older ladies, had ever had _any_ kind of relationship, they were so weird and awkward. They really got into the fan-fluttering and the goofy language, but underneath all that, Dean thought they were sort of scared, of him and Sam both. And not for the reasons they maybe should be—just because he and Sam were men. Despite his size, Sam seemed to scare them less, probably because he worked a little harder at playing the game the women were here to play. Whatever that was.

When he got to the ballroom, he saw Sam charming the pants off some older lady across the room, and he couldn’t stand it. Damn it, _he_ was the ladies’ man. He would just have to step up his game. He straightened his top hat—seriously, a top hat!—and his vest-thing, which was a little tighter than he’d like, and looked around for a likely prospect.

He spotted someone promising pretty quick. She was a wallflower, so she was likely to appreciate the attention. He would try to get some concrete info out of her; he sure wasn’t gonna get anything else out of this “ball.” They were supposed to learn some dances of the era; Dean was gonna try to skip out on that part if he could. The sooner he and Sam got back to normal life, the better. He did sort of wince when he thought that—when normal life was more likely to involve decapitations, monsters, and deals with demons than chatter with nice ladies and dance lessons, something was really wrong.

He put on his best non-threatening, charming manner as he approached the mousy lady in the super-prim and proper gown. Other ladies were making eye contact and chattering in crappy, fake English accents, but this gal was just standing in the corner, staring at her shoes. She spotted him, but didn’t look up; it sort of hurt Dean’s heart that she had no hope that he was coming to talk to her. He hoped he could figure out the old-school flirting well enough to lift her spirits. 

He grinned, thinking of a better way than all this bowing bullshit that he could do that, but as she looked up finally and shyly met his eye, a wave of disorientation washed over him. He stopped, staggered, and then gazed into the young lady’s face.

He knew her—of course he did! She was his beloved Rebecca! Nothing could be more natural than to go to her side and take her hand; but he must not—it would be insupportable, however his feelings would seem to sustain it; indeed they demanded it. How he wished his fate had been otherwise, that he were here at the ball as an invited, esteemed guest! He would ask for the honor of her next dance, and meeting her fine, demure gaze would lead her in the next set; no other gentleman in the room, though all of higher birth and greater wealth than he, could dance so well, nor were any half so handsome, vain though it may be that he knew it. If such display he could make, hereby proving his feelings to her, perhaps she would give him guess as to her own. 

Such was not to be. So many circumstances prevented the dance he most longed for, the attestations and declarations he wished to make to the eldest Miss Whitcomb! If he had been the first, instead of the fourth son of a once-respected tradesman; if said tradesman, his father, were still thus respected and had not incurred such debt that he, Geoffrey, were obliged to interrupt his education and go into service to attempt recompense; if the service he had chosen were not that of a lowly footman to the Whitcomb estate at Briarhurst—if such wishes were horses, beggars, or disgraced tradesmen’s sons, would ride. In his current aggrieved circumstances, the young Mr. Hughes could only watch his noble employers ride, and assist them to carriage as needed.

Ignoring the protestations of his heart, he did not take his beloved’s hand, but bowed stiffly instead. “The carriage awaits your pleasure, Miss Whitcomb,” he said.

Did he perceive in her mien something of regret? Surely in a moment she must glance dismissively at him, coolly thank him, and proceed to her carriage, preceded by her mother and followed by her younger sister; if he were graced with a touch of the tip of her glove as she ascended, he should count himself blessed. Such was the fate he had been consigned to when she perforce refused his suit; though she had done so with regret, she could not have done otherwise. The match was entirely unsuitable. Her father, if he knew one tenth of what had passed between Geoffrey Hughes and his eldest daughter, would not just see him dismissed but would certainly see him out of Derbyshire, and perhaps his family as well, and what reputation his family had left would be further besmirched—nay, annihilated. He could not press his suit. He could not cherish hope. He must—

“Geoffrey.” How sweet her tones! how layered with regret, with regard she must never show, and how ill-considered that she should speak his name now, in a room full of her equals and not his, where any of her intimate acquaintance might hear or observe! “Has it come to this between us?” she continued in her relentlessly genteel manner.

“Miss Whitcomb, I beg you,” he whispered, concealing his words with another bow. “Do not endanger yourself! My feelings for you are unchanged; indeed they will never change, but you chance too much! If you are overheard—” 

“Dean, what the hell are you doing?”

* * * 

Sam took in the scene with alarm. He blinked several times, then shook his head when the strange vision didn’t disappear. He barely recognized his brother. The top hat and tails were weird, but they’d worn enough disguises over the years that he hardly batted an eye at that. But the way Dean was talking and acting—even _he_ wouldn’t go that far to get into some woman’s pants. Well, he would if he were capable of it, but Sam knew he wasn’t.

Sam almost smacked his forehead in disbelief at his denseness when he heard the squawk of the EMF detector in his pocket. _Ghost possession._ Of course! Dean wasn’t acting like his brother because he _wasn’t_ his brother. And the poor lady thought it was just part of the cosplay; she was going right along with it, not knowing she was talking to a potentially dangerous spirit. She was probably its next intended victim. He had to get Dean—or whatever was in him—out of there, preferably without causing a scene.

He cleared his throat as the two looked up at him. “Uh, might I have a word outside, good sir?” he said awkwardly.

The ghost regarded him coldly out of Dean’s eyes. Sam gripped the rock-salt-loaded pistol inside his jacket—he’d had to rig an extra pocket for it in the costume he’d rented, and it didn’t conceal the weapon very well, but there hadn’t been time to come up with anything better. 

It was _weird_ —this handsome country gentleman barely even looked like his beer-swilling, burger-loving philanderer of a brother. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said the ghost. “I did not intend interruption of the evening’s diversions; I am here only to escort Miss Whitcomb to her carriage.”

Sam tried to think quickly. “Uh, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, cursing himself for not being able to keep up the period-speak. “There’s… a problem with the carriage.”

That got the ghost’s attention. “Surely not!” he said anxiously, and followed Sam out the side door of the ballroom.

While the ghost looked around the gravel driveway next to the B&B for the “carriage,” Sam grabbed him suddenly, got him in a firm chokehold, and reached for the bag of rock salt he knew Dean had in his vest pocket. Gripping the struggling figure, he shoved a handful of salt crystals in Dean’s mouth—that had worked well with the ghost-possessed girl at their old high school, and would do less damage than shooting his brother, even with rock salt.

Dean coughed, sputtered, and finally collapsed against Sam; Sam gently lowered him to the ground, noting the telltale dribble of black goo from his ear. “What the hell, dude! Get off me!”

Sam let him go and opened his mouth to explain, but was interrupted by a lady’s delicate fan connecting rather violently with his face.

“Unhand him, you—you roguish clunch!” said the lady Dean had been flirting with while he was possessed. She was getting a little too into the role-play.

“Ow! Listen, lady—” But Sam was knocked aside as Dean shot to his feet; he’d spluttered out all the salt Sam had forced into his mouth, and Sam could tell instantly that he was possessed again.

He took the woman’s hand and bowed over it. “Dearest Rebecca. I hope that you are unharmed? You mustn’t be seen with me in this manner. Our feelings cannot be denied, but we must not allow them to show. It is not to be—how it shatters my heart! But you deserve better. Do not allow your reputation to be damaged; you must return to the ball at once—”

Sam was staring in fascination. The woman—there was a black stain on the high, lacy collar of her dress. They were _both_ possessed. Looking back on the research he’d done on the Austenland retreat’s attendees as well as the history involved, and noting the details of her outfit, he got a sudden idea.

“No! I will not!” the woman was saying. She took Dean’s hand in both of hers; he looked shocked and stepped back from her, but kept staring, entranced, into her eyes. “My happiness must surely be my own, if nothing else is! May I not make this most important of choices for myself? Please, Geoffrey—”

Whatever she was going to plead for was cut off when Sam, apparently forgotten, surged forward, shoved Dean out of the way, and grabbed the locket she wore on a ribbon around her neck, yanking it off.

“Sir! You go too far!” said Dean in his eerily perfect English accent—and punched Sam square in the jaw, knocking him down.

Fortunately, just then “Rebecca” suddenly swooned and fainted, and “Geoffrey” had to catch her. Sam took advantage of the distraction to break open the locket, pull a lighter from his pocket, and set fire to the lock of hair he found inside. He sprinkled it with salt for good measure, and turned to see two spirits rise above Dean and the woman, who fell to the ground as the spirits left them. The ghostly images sparked and emitted heartrending moans as they began, more slowly than usual, to incandesce. 

Lit up by sparks, ghost-Geoffrey turned to ghost-Rebecca. As their images began to swirl, Geoffrey took Rebecca’s hand.

“Dearest Geoffrey,” she said. “How I regret that I refused your proposal! Would that we had eloped… Would that I had listened to my heart instead of the cold calculations of family and society!”

“Dearest Rebecca. Do not repine. Should anything now part us as we ascend into the veil? Come away with me now, my love. Nothing, nay, not even death, can part us; indeed it shall unite us! I—”

He stopped as sparks ascended to his face and his image flickered harshly, but Rebecca stepped closer and touched his cheek as she, too, began to dissolve.

“Not even… death…” Her lips still moved as the ghostly whisper faded to nothing with a final glimmer over the prostrate bodies of Dean and the cosplay woman, slumped on the gravel.

Dean got slowly to his feet, shaking his head dizzily. He glanced at Sam and the small fire at his feet, then turned and helped the woman up. 

“What—what happened?” she said. 

“Uh, long story,” said Sam, as Dean steadied her and brushed at some of the gravel clinging to her dress.

“You OK?” Dean said. Sam knew Dean didn’t exactly know what happened himself, yet, but he trusted that Sam had solved the case. “Not really the nice dance you were hoping for, I know…”

But she was blushing and beginning to smile tentatively at Dean’s solicitous behavior. “I’m OK…” She had dropped all the Regency-era mannerisms and now just seemed like a nice, geeky lady—not nearly as scared of them now, oddly, as she had been in the ballroom. “Um, are you?” She touched the trail of black goo on Dean’s cheek, probably thinking it was blood.

“Yeah—yeah, I’m good.” Dean glanced at Sam over her shoulder. Sam gave him a thumbs-up, and Dean proceeded with the task of distracting her from the case while Sam disposed of the evidence. “Think I’ve had enough of this fancy retreat, though.” He turned her adroitly away from Sam, taking her arm. “Listen—I saw a place on the way here, in that town just up the road. I bet the clam chowder is good. What do you say we get out of here…”

Sam smiled. Dean was back in his element, and Sam knew he could leave this part of the clean-up in his brother’s capable hands.

* * *

“So Kathy had Rebecca Whitcomb’s locket, with a lock of that Geoffrey dude’s hair in it?”

“Yep. I recognized the locket from a portrait I saw of her. Thought it might be his ghost. He had reason to be pissed off about what happened, so I thought he’d be the vengeful spirit. I guess it was both of them, though.”

“They couldn’t get married because she was a lord’s daughter and he was a servant? I guess that really mattered a lot back then, huh?”

“Yep. She said no when he asked her to marry him, but then she tried to go back on it. Her father found out that she wanted to marry someone she shouldn’t, but apparently never suspected the footman. She got sent away to Bath in England to get treated for ‘hysteria’; they did that to women a lot back then. She was gone for two years, and by the time she got back, her footman had died of consumption.”

Dean looked sadder than Sam had thought this story would make him. Dean cleared his throat. “Well. At least she got to tell him how she felt, and maybe… they’re together now.”

“Hope so,” Sam continued as they got in the Impala. “She married someone else in her same social class, and no one knew about her ‘youthful romance’ until about 75 years later. Her great-granddaughter found her old diaries hidden on the estate they lived on in England. The family lives here in Maine now, and they published a novelized version of the diaries recently. Austen fans love the book, and your new friend Kathy paid a lot of money for Rebecca Whitcomb’s old locket at an auction.”

“Well, Kathy got a little more old-fashioned romance than she bargained for at this retreat, I guess.”

“More modern romance, too, if what time you got home this morning is any indication.”

“A gentleman,” said Dean with a smirk, in a frighteningly accurate version of the accent he’d had while possessed, “doesn’t kiss and tell.”

~The End~


End file.
